


can't get there from here

by natlet



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(I've been there, I know the way.)</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't get there from here

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from R.E.M.  
> Contains offensive language of assorted types.  
> Set pre-series, but contains minor background-related spoilers through 4x06.

Tig's almost ready to go, checking the shit he's got tied on his bike one last time, when Clay comes out of the clubhouse. He's headed right for Tig, purpose in his stride, but Tig straps on his helmet, pretends he doesn't see him. Colleen has the girls all the way down in San Diego this year, and if he doesn't get going he's gonna hit LA just in time for rush hour. He don't have time for club shit right now, trouble still simmering with the Mayans or no.

"Gonna ride with you," Clay says, and Tig thinks, _you motherfucker._ "We got business to take care of with San Gabriel, be easiest just you and me."

He tightens his hands on the grips, but he can feel his shoulders starting to slump. "Clay," he says. "Man, come on. It's Christmas Eve. I gotta go see my kids."

Clay shrugs. He's grinning, but his eyes are hidden behind his shades, and Tig can't tell what kind of grin it is. "So we'll hit San Gabriel on our way back," he says. "We gotta handle this shit, Tiggy, and we gotta do it now. Everyone's in the holiday spirit, they're with their families, they got a lot to lose. Gemma and Jax are up at Nate's. There's not gonna be a better time to do this."

"You know she ain't gonna let me see them if you're with me."

"I'll get a hotel, stay outta the way," Clay says. "She won't even know I'm there."

*

Traffic is shit, because traffic's always shit, and by the time they hit the outskirts of LA the freeways are blocked up tight. They weave their way slowly between the cars, turning east around the city as soon as they get the chance, but the damage is already done - it's late when they reach San Diego, real late, late enough there's nobody else around once they turn off the freeway and into the neighborhoods.

Tig pulls into a motel parking lot a few minutes out from Colleen's place, switches off his engine, waits for Clay to pull up alongside him. "No way she's gonna let me in now," he says, but even as the words are coming out of his mouth he's not sure he believes them.

Clay shrugs. "So you go by in the morning."

"She takes 'em to her mom's place first thing," Tig says. "I dunno if I can make it there early enough - "

"Don't worry," Clay says, the grin back on his face as he hangs his helmet on the bike's grip. "I won't let you sleep too late."

There's one room, because that's Tig's fucking luck - two beds, at least, but it takes him about fifteen seconds of standing in the bathroom with his eyes closed trying to piss while Clay shouts at Gemma over the phone outside to realize that ain't going to matter much. He hurries in the shower, closing his eyes to let the lukewarm water carry cheap shampoo down over his face, rinsing away most of the grime from the road, and when he comes out of the bathroom Clay's slamming the phone back down in its cradle. "Trouble on the homefront?" Tig says.

"Rose called her a whore," says Clay, "so Jackson broke her antique gravy boat and told Nate his wife was a cunt."

"So just the usual shit, then," Tig says, and Clay grins.

"Yeah," he says. "Merry fuckin' Christmas." He kicks his feet up on his bed, reaches for the remote. 

Tig dumps his jeans on the floor next to his bag, crawls into the other bed. "You think I should call her?" he says. "Let her know I'm here?"

Clay laughs, low and quick. "Not at three in the mornin'," he says.

Tig doesn't answer, reaching to turn out the light before he pulls the rough blanket up over his head. Clay mutes the TV, but he flips channels for a while; Tig watches the light flicker through the sheets and waits for it to go dark, waits until he hears Clay settling down to sleep before he says, "She ain't gonna let me see 'em, Clay."

He can hear Clay shifting in his bed. "They're your kids, Tig," Clay says after a minute, his voice firm and soft and closer than he was before. "You're gonna see 'em."

Clay doesn't pull this much, at least not with Tig. Most of the time he's willing to argue, willing to hear opinions, but every now and then he's got this way of making it clear that when he speaks, he expects his word alone to put an end to things. Tig knows better by now than to fight him, when he gets like this. 

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, I guess," and he rolls over, puts his back to Clay. It's quiet, but not quiet enough - the not-so-faint roar from the occasional passing car, the constant low-grade hum and glow from the soda machines just outside their door edging into the corners of his head. Tig has to be up in a couple hours, and he knows he's probably not gonna sleep much - he wishes he was at home, in his nice soft bed, in his dark, silent little house in Charming - but he closes his eyes and tries anyway.

Clay can sleep fucking anywhere. He snores, a little. Tig doesn't mind.

*

Tig catches the alarm before it goes off. He gets dressed in the bathroom, wriggling back into his jeans quick and sleepy and stupid, and brews a pot of shitty coffee in the tiny four-cup percolator on the counter while he brushes his teeth. It's not really worth drinking, and he leaves most of the pot for Clay, but he chugs down a cup before he goes, ignoring the burn in the back of his throat. He's gonna need it - the caffeine and the pain both.

The address Tig has takes him to a quiet little neighborhood just off the main road, a row of squat little stucco houses, near-identical with their matching terra cotta roofs and sun-bleached driveways. Tig cuts the engine when he makes the turn, coasts silently down the block. Colleen's place - she's still driving the same rusted-out old minivan he bought her when the girls were born, and it's hulking in the driveway, wood panels and all - is about halfway down. Tig parks his bike on the street. He doesn't wanna presume.

The curtains shift as he comes up the oil-spotted driveway. He pretends he doesn't notice. She's got a row of scraggly little flowers planted next to the walk that runs across the yard to the house. They look pretty much like shit, but a couple have tiny blooms on them, and next to the stoop he spots a couple kid-sized gardening spades, plastic and dull-edged and bright pink. He takes a breath, and goes to knock.

She beats him to it, the door opening under his hand, and Tig's gotta smile at that. Some shit you don't lose. "Hey, Col," he says.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, the door cracked just enough for her to peer out. He catches a glimpse of wildly mussed hair, a fluffy mint-green bathrobe he doesn't recognize.

"Come on, baby, don't be like this," he says. "It's Christmas, I came to see them."

"Goddamn right it's Christmas. You don't call them, you don't come see them, you just - "

"Hey, come on, I'm here now - "

" - show up unannounced on your goddamn motorcycle at _five fucking thirty_ on Christmas morning like it's gonna be okay, Jesus Christ, Alex, what the fuck made you think this would be okay?"

"They're my kids, Col," he says. "You can't keep 'em away from me."

"They're my kids too," she says, and her voice is raw enough he takes half a step back. "You're keeping yourself away. I told you, I won't have that shit around them. I won't."

"I know, baby, I know," Tig says. "It's just me now, come on, I'm not wearin' the - "

"I'm not fucking stupid, Alex, I can see your bike," she says. "I told you, my lawyer told you, it's the club or your kids. You picked the club."

"Colleen," says Tig, soft and desperate. "Baby, come on, it's not - " 

"Go on," she says. "Go ahead, Alex, tell me you'd never put Clay Morrow and the Sons before us. It'll be just as bullshit as every other fucking time you've said it."

"That's nice, Col, that's real nice, in front of the - "

"Don't," she says, "talk to me about in front of the kids. Don't you fucking dare."

Tig sighs. "Fine." He's got his wallet in his back pocket; he pulls out the three crisp hundred-dollar bills he's got in there, plus the handful of crumpled fives and twenties, hands the whole mess to her, watches as she tucks it into the pocket of her bathrobe. She doesn't count it. "That should cover what I owe you, and then some," he says. "I thought I'd take 'em into the city and buy 'em new bicycles for Christmas. Guess you can do that with whoever you're fuckin' now." She gives him a look and opens her mouth, and he shakes his head quick, cuts her off before she can get whatever it is out. "Yeah, I know. Too far. Sorry." He passes over the bag he's carrying. "Those're helmets. Green one's for Dawnie." 

"I'll make sure they know they're from you." Colleen tips her head against the side of the door, rocking it gently, idly in its frame. "They miss you, Alex," she says, after a minute.

"Then lemme see 'em," he says. "C'mon, Col, I'm here, let me see them." 

Something in her face softens and for a second she looks like she did when they were dating, like she did when they used to spend Sundays laughing and riding around on his bike with her face pressed against his cut, like she did when he married her. "I told my mom we'd take her to church at seven," she says, "but we should be back by two. We'll meet you here." 

"I can't," he says, and he knows before the words are even all the way out that it's the wrong thing to say - she's closed to him, the gate sliding shut between them, him on the outside. "I mean, maybe I can - " 

"No," she says. "You can't." 

"Col, it's not - " 

She laughs. "Come on, Alex," she says. "It's exactly like that. Which one of 'em is down here with you? Clay? You headed to San Gabriel?" 

"Look, I'm here, ain't I? I'm here now."

"Yeah," she says. "Now. When it's convenient for the club."

"Hey, I made a promise to that - " 

"You made a promise to _me_ ," she says, her voice brittle and sharp and bare, and for half a second he wants to tell her the club had been there first, the club had always been first, but she looks like she's barely hanging on and he keeps his mouth shut, instead - for all the shit they'd done to each other over the years, he's never, ever wanted to make her cry. She breathes in deep, closes her eyes for a second. "Look," she says. "They're still off school next week. Give me a call and we'll work something out."

Tig nods. "Yeah," he says. "Fine, I'll - I'll come down by myself, I'll rent a fucking car if it'll make you happy."

"Yeah, it would." 

He nods again, turns to go, gets halfway down the walk toward the driveway before she says, "Alex."

"Yeah."

"Tell Clay I said hello," she says, and then she slips back inside, closes the door. He sits on his bike for a minute and watches, but he doesn't see the curtains move again, and eventually he puts his helmet on and goes.

*

Clay doesn't ask how it went.

Clay doesn't say fucking anything, which Tig appreciates. He just picks up the room keys, nods toward the door and then leaves, leaves Tig alone for a minute, leaves him alone to lock himself in the bathroom and curse and slam his hands against the countertop, and by the time he comes back Tig's got the tears wiped away and their shit ready to go.

It's early still, and traffic is light. Usually when it's just the two of them they ride side by side, but today Tig follows Clay out of the parking lot, shakes his head when Clay glances back to see where he is. Clay frowns but he swings his bike a little more toward the yellow line, brings his speed down so it's easy for Tig to keep up, and once they're on the highway Tig just paces him, hangs off Clay's right shoulder and lets himself get lost in his own shit for a while, trusts Clay to bring them both through it safe and whole.

They stop for breakfast just outside San Gabriel's territory. Tig's expecting to see Raymond and the boys when he drags his eyes away from the Reaper on Clay's back, but instead he sees a shitty little diner, a handful of dusty cars. Clay tells him to wait here, and they're still on Mayan turf, so Tig does; Clay's gone a while, but when he comes back, he's got a big grease-stained paper bag and two cups of coffee in a cardboard tray.

They sit in the little strip of grass that separates the parking lot from the main road. The egg sandwiches aren't as good as Gemma's, but the coffee's close. "I love you," Tig says when he tastes it, serious, and Clay laughs.

*

San Gabriel is waiting at a little park just off the highway. Raymond's been the president almost since the charter started up; he's looking a little older, a little thicker around the middle, but he's still got his bike and his cut and he grins as they exchange back-slapping hugs. Their SAA is a skinny little tweaker called Weasel. Tig's never met him before and he doesn't like him at first glance, but he follows Clay's lead and shakes the guy's hand before he stands back, just to Clay's right, arms folded across his chest.

They spend a few minutes catching up, then Clay pulls out the cigars, lights one for Raymond, one for himself. "You got everything in place?" 

Raymond nods. "Like you asked. No ties to the club. Aside from the obvious."

"Yeah."

"We gonna go ahead with it, then?" Raymond says, but he's not talking to Clay any more - he's talking to Tig.

"What?" Tig says. "The fuck are you - " 

"Hey, man," Weasel says. "I got a bitch ex-wife. I know what it's like. She tried to take my kids away, I'd off her too."

Tig steps toward him, rises up, quick and unthinking. _"What?"_ he says, and he's balling up his fist to swing when Clay turns, puts a hand on his shoulder, stops him.

Stops him, instead of rising up with him.

"Give us a minute," Clay says, and Tig thinks, _shit_.

"What the fuck is going on?" he says, after Raymond and fucking Weasel back off a little. "Thought you said we had business with them." 

"Yeah," Clay says. His hand's still on Tig's shoulder, firm and solid and heavy. "This is it." _They're with their families,_ his voice echoes in Tig's head. _They got a lot to lose._

"Clay, I don't - "

"They'll make sure the girls don't see her," says Clay. "It'll be quick. She won't suffer. And then you can bring 'em home."

"Jesus Christ, Clay," Tig says, "no," and there's a second, just a second where Clay's quiet and looks at him real careful and he thinks maybe Clay's going to try and change his mind - but instead Clay nods, once, slow and sure.

"Okay," Clay says. "Okay. Lemme handle this." He squeezes Tig's shoulder, then lets him go; Tig pulls out a cigarette, watches as Clay talks to Raymond, as they nod and shake hands, as Raymond and Weasel climb back on their bikes and take off. Raymond waves to Tig as they pull out; Weasel doesn't. 

"Sorry, Clay," Tig says, when Clay comes back over.

Clay's real busy with his bike suddenly, tapping at a dial. "You ain't got nothing to be sorry for," he says. 

"What about leavin' my kids, shouldn't I be sorry for that?" 

"Hey," Clay says. He comes away from his bike, pulls his sunglasses off even, and Tig's not sure he likes that, not sure what to do with what's waiting for him in Clay's eyes. "You didn't leave 'em. You didn't choose this." 

The thing is, he kind of did - did the first time, had after that, would again - but he doesn't know how to say that to Clay, so instead he just nods, steps into Clay's arms, lets Clay wrap him up and tries real hard for just a few minutes to believe him.

*

The girls are on summer break by the time Tig makes it back down. Colleen's got pictures from their kindergarten graduation, and they go through them together at a picnic table outside the community pool, waiting for swim lessons to finish up. Dawnie's hair is long in the pictures, but when she comes out in her little skirt and her bathing suit it's short; Tig tells her it looks real nice, and she smiles at him cautiously from behind Colleen's leg.

They go out for ice cream, just the four of them. Fawn holds Tig's hand and tells him all about her friend Matthew - kid sounds like a punk, first-grader or not, and Tig's gonna tell Col to keep an eye out for him later. He asks what he hopes are the right sorts of questions, about her friends and her teachers and what she's gonna do all summer (ride her bike, she tells him, and he can't help it if he feels something squeeze a little in his chest at that), and he tries not to notice how Colleen's smiling, cautious and slow. 

He drops them off at home. Fawn kisses him twice, big and flashy, once on the forehead and once on the lips, her little hands warm on his cheeks; Dawn barely lets him hug her, but it feels pretty much the same. They go up toward the house holding hands and whispering, their heads tipped together, and he watches them as close as he can. This is how he wants to remember them.

"Thank you, Alex," Colleen says softly, once they're out of earshot. "This was really good for them." 

"Yeah," Tig says. "I - they seem good. Happy."

"They are," she says; pauses, and then, "They need their dad." 

"I know," he says. "I know, Col, I - I'm tryin'."

"Next week?" she says. "We can meet you halfway, if you want. It'd help if this was - if seeing you was a regular thing, for them." 

"Yeah," Tig says. "Yeah, we'll see. I - we got some shit going down with the club. Not sure it's gonna be safe for me to be around 'em for a bit, but I'll - " 

Colleen nods, once, slow. "Just let me know," she says.

"Yeah, I will. Their birthday, maybe." 

"Maybe?" 

"Probably," he says, and she laughs a little. 

"Just try, okay, Alex? That's all I want you to do, is try." She hugs him before he goes, quick and tight, her skinny arms around his neck and his nose in her wild sweet-smelling hair, and he drives north for an hour, almost two, before he stops thinking about that and starts thinking about the club again.

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to emily for the hand-holding <3


End file.
